


Whispers in the Dark

by howlingautumn (orphan_account)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 16:07:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4442300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/howlingautumn





	1. Fan the Flame

Fili, heir and nephew of Thorin Oakenshield, son of Dis, and older brother to Kili stokes the fire in the middle of their camp on this very sunny day. And it does not matter what his idiot brother says he is not staring at the elf.

He is not staring at the elf.

Furthermore, his mouth does not go a little dry when the elf stretches his long arms upwards and a tiny hint of skin is revealed.

It doesn’t.

Blue snickers from behind curled fingers and he is not quite certain that she can’t read his mind. Stupid hobbits and their stupid laughs. Wait, if the Burglar can read his mind then she will absolutely tell Uncle what he said about stupid stupid hobbits and then he will be dead ( _without ever even tasting_ ) or at least maimed and he just needs to think forgiving thoughts and yes, beautiful hobbits and their beautiful laughs, oh wait that will make Uncle jealous and . . . .

He is an idiot. Bluebell Baggins grins a quick grin at him when she hops up, “Don’t look so angry Fili, you look like you’re about to blow a gasket.” She pats him once or twice on the arm and then goes to take her place on watch.

Maybe that’s why everyone has been avoiding him today, he looks too angry. Mahal, he probably looks like a poor facsimile of Uncle Thorin. Without the dark hair of course. He, Frerin, and his mother were the blonde haired line of Durin. His blonde was so much darker than  ** _his_**  blonde though and Fili really, really, really cannot help if he wonders what the colors would look like meshed together.

Dwalin quicks his head to one side beside Thorin and holds in a laugh, “How long has he been staring, my friend?”

The King Under the Mountain turns, regally even in his dishevelled blacksmith state and groans, “He has no skill of subtlety, Dwalin.”

It is only by mere milliseconds and years of friendship that keeps Dwalin from suffering a blow by Oakenshield’s hands when he says, “Neither do you.”


	2. A Blink

Legolas has never been so blatantly stared at in all of his many years.

The dwarf has a dreamy yet angry sort of look upon his face. It does not waver when Legolas stretches, or cleans his bow, or sorts through his pack. It seems like his face, Fili’s face, will be forever stuck like that.

A pity, really.

The halfling speaks to him and he looks at her but at the same time does not really look at her. She smiles, a bit smugly, and takes her turn at watch by the tall trees. The dwarven prince just keeps staring.

The mark on his wrist stings. And, he muses mildly, his father is going to kill him.


	3. Apogee

If he did not love his brother so much, The Line of Durin would be bereft one heir. Alas, he loves his brother, and there are still two heirs, even if at the end only one will ahem, have their crown jewels intact.

It is the beforementioned brother and his so called friends that suggest a sparring match between the Heir of Mirk, no, Greenwood and himself is in order. Fili would rather streak up the Lonely Mountain with Smaug on his heels than do this. He is no coward, however, and can see in his periphery that money is changing hands at the winner, and if he could hear the whispers, if he will cry.

Kili, being the best brother on Eru’s Middle Earth, bets that his boo-hooing will rock the camp.

Legolas advances toward the center of the ring, wondering exactly how he got wrangled into this.  _To prove your prowess to them_ , the rational part of his mind says.  _To embarrass yourself beyond belief_ , says the other part, and it sounds distinctly like Tauriel come to think of it.

With his bow discarded, and only his traditional blade and knife strapped to his back, Legolas feels strange. Fighting should not feel this intimate. He feels bare without his quiver, stripped without his leather, and frankly naked without his longbow.

He wonders, again absently, as the dodging begins, if the . . . if Fili feels the same.

****  
  


Fili wants to laugh. Fili wants to cry.  **Fili wants to make the Prince crumble beneath his fingertips**. Whoa there, pull back, just don’t let him touch you. Just don’t let him touch you.

And of course, as soon as he thinks that perilous thought the Elf has him pinned. He resists the urge to shiver when the elf straddles his thighs and presses a dull practice knife to his throat, and says in that perfect bone melting voice, “Yield, Durinson.”

This time, Fili does let loose a laugh that rumbles through the camp, because some of the Company has already scattered, as if they too can sense the tension. As if they too can feel the electric. “Never, _ **Legolas Thranduilion**_.” And his voice oozes pure bedroom tones and it is the Elf Prince’s surprise that allows Fili the moment to “accidentally” roll his hips upward and the friction is too much too little too soon and both let forth a surprised gasp and Kili almost wins the bet when Fili almost cries as Legolas shoots upward and he loses the feel of muscle against muscle and . . .

Even from a distance one can see the beard burn across his neck.


	4. Resolution

Fili mouths the edge of Legolas' jaw. 

His beard scratches against soft skin. 

This is it, this is real. 


End file.
